


A Psychopath In Love

by quinoaquin



Series: Redeemable Series [psychopath!Crowley AU] [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And Better Therapists, Crowley Has Feelings but they're fucked up, Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Dark, Human AU, Hurt Crowley, M/M, Manipulation, Necrophilia sort of, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Unhealthy Relationships, honestly I don't wanna scare yall away, this is just one big bucket of Crowley angst!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22971115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinoaquin/pseuds/quinoaquin
Summary: The story of Crowley’s first love and how it all went down like a lead balloon.-  -  -  -Here's the thing about psychopaths in love. They don't exist.Crowley exists, and he's in love. Oh, he is so, so in love. According toDo You Love Him?, 3-minute pop quiz from a respectable girls' magazine, he's 29 points out of 30 in love.Do you miss him as soon as he leaves?Yes.Do you find yourself staring at him?Oh yes.Do you feel a rush or high when you think of him?Definitely yes.If you were there when he overdosed on heroin in a hotel room you paid for with your credit card, would you cut his stomach open with a dull kitchen knife and slide your hand into him up to your elbow and lay next to him like that for hours?Probably yes.
Series: Redeemable Series [psychopath!Crowley AU] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650787
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	A Psychopath In Love

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE FIRST READ Unknowable (Crowley/Az) if you want this to make more sense!
> 
> This is actually chapter 13 of Unknowable, but I might continue the arc here only. Hope that makes sense. Sorry for the confusion.

2007

Here's the thing about psychopaths in love. They don't exist.

Crowley exists, and he's in love. Oh, he is so, so in love. According to _Do You Love Him?_ , 3-minute pop quiz from a respectable girls' magazine, he's 29 points out of 30 in love.

 _Do you miss him as soon as he leaves?_ Yes. _Do you find yourself staring at him?_ Oh yes. _Do you feel a rush or high when you think of him?_ Definitely yes.

 _If you were there when he overdosed on heroin in a hotel room you paid for with your credit card, would you cut his stomach open with a dull kitchen knife and slide your hand into him up to your elbow and lay next to him like that for hours?_ Probably yes.

* * *

According to his eleventh therapist, Crowley was incapable of feeling shame or regret.

('It's not regret you're feeling. You just don't like the consequences of your actions.' Yeah, what the hell else was regret _supposed_ to feel like?)

But Crowley could feel shame and regret. He could. He doesn't think Satan himself could've grown up living with his mother and not develop the ability to feel shame, and he was frankly getting a bit tired of people telling him how he felt and who he was.

Yes, he often had trouble predicting _which_ actions he'd end up regretting, or judging how certain things he did would affect others, but it was just... It was just _hard_. It was just so, so difficult, and he couldn't for the life of him understand how making these predictions, these bloody prophesies, came so _easily_ to other people.

'How _could_ you?!' they'd scream at him accusingly throughout his life, and Crowley never knew how to answer that. Still doesn't. 'How could he'? He just... _could_. How could _they,_ was what Crowley really wanted to know. How could they take everyone into account so skillfully, how could they _simultaneously_ consider their own experiences and thoughts and feelings, and those of someone else? How could they _want_ and _need_ and at the very same time concern themselves with what others wanted and needed? Crowley found that to be an impossible task more often than not. He could feel regret, he _could_ , he was capable of it, just not... immediately, not like other people, and usually not for the same reasons.

And of course there was also the fact that other people didn't feel that white flash of pleasure that Crowley so often experienced when he hurt someone. Anathema seemed utterly incapable of comprehending how anyone could feel pleasure when doing some of the things Crowley did much in the same way that Crowley was unable to understand how she _didn't_ feel this way. She - and most everyone else - didn't know the incredibly peaceful feeling of joy that could radiate through his entire body when he let himself indulge in something he wanted and needed, like a tightly wound coil finally allowed to spring open. He felt alive. He felt _connected_ to another living being, especially when that living being was someone... special.

When he chased that feeling, he often had no regard for the other in that moment, no interest in their experience at all unless it served to amplify his rush, and so he would occasionally end up doing things that he later regretted. That sort of stuff... happens, right? You lash out in anger or fear or just plain malice, then you regret it later after you've looked at it more clearly and thought it over. And then people forgive you, because it was just an impulse, it doesn't define you, that's not who you really are. Action-regret- **forgiveness**.

Crowley's impulses were too heinous to be forgiven, no matter the amount of regret. It didn't work like that for someone like him: he wasn't a good person who had made a mistake. He was just... well, evil. Psychologists would cringe in distaste at the word but Crowley was painfully familiar with both worlds, and he knew that no matter how many bloody pages long his diagnosis was, no matter how objectively and scientifically they tried to explain and describe it, it was all nothing but so many words for 'evil'. And... sure, yeah. Maybe. Maybe he was. Crowley was perfectly capable of admitting that it was not very likely that _he_ was the one who was right, and the rest of the world was wrong. (' _Grandiose sense of self-worth_ ' was one of the few items on the _Hare Psychopathy Checklist_ that helped lower his overall score enough for him to not 'officially' quality as a psychopath.)

'You do know how fucking scary that sounds?' Anathema asked him one night when they were getting drunk in his father's cabin and he tried his best to describe the way his mind works. Was it? Scary? The way that he experienced pleasure and love? Yes, he supposed, if he really thought about it, he could understand why it was scary. But he didn't _intend_ for it to be. Was it really his fault if other people found it scary? Surely no one else got to pick and choose what made them feel good either?

And not only could he not be forgiven, he also could never become a good person or someone worthy of real love.

Crowley was, in a manner of speaking, more or less missing parts of the brain you apparently needed to qualify as a good person (aka he was evil). This of course meant that any effort he put into being a good person was only an act. Not _good_ , just an imitation of it. He didn't 'seek happiness', he 'manipulated to get what he wanted'. He didn't 'become a better person', he 'adapted' - you know, like a virus or whatever fucking slime Star Trek monster came to mind when you heard the word being used to describe you. Everything was a trick, a deception, all of it, his entire existence a mistake, a mutation gone wrong, and they would look at him like he was... hollow, like he wasn't there. A turkey in a cage.

* * *

Here's the hilarious part.

He had never hurt Josh. Not once. Never went too far, never betrayed him, never snapped at his friends when they got too close, never even said a cruel word. He worked hard every moment they were together, to be good- no, _perfect_ for his love. Absolutely any way he wanted or needed him to be, Crowley would be it.

It took so much concentration to never slip that he'd collapse on his bed from exhaustion every night, finally able to relax his head, relax his bloody face muscles from the countless expressions he had to twist them into. It was exhausting, always watching and waiting for the subtle clues that often made little sense to Crowley, then figuring out how he was supposed to react fast enough so that nothing seemed... off. Because sometimes even his best wasn't good enough - people would still get a 'gut feeling', that deep, sickly twist of your stomach when there was just something wrong with a person but you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

Crowley had realized at a young age just how many alarms he set off in people's heads when he wasn't being careful, even when he had no ill intentions. It was like... like they could _smell_ him. Was it his fault that he had to charm and lie and con and manipulate for someone to love him? Was that _his_ failure? What would you do if everyone kept their distance and wrinkled their noses at you, no matter how hard you tried to scrub your body clean? Wouldn't you douse yourself in perfume and stuff your pockets full of little tree car fresheners in hopes that someone would miss the rotting stench underneath and allow you to approach?

And so he learned early on that to be wanted, to be loved, he had to act a certain way. Had to think before responding - what he really thought or felt was rarely the right choice of words or course of action. (When someone tells you their grandmother is in the hospital, you can't respond the same as when they tell you about what they had for lunch. Your face has to do a thing, and you have to go 'Oh no, that's awful', and 'I'm so sorry to hear that', and 'Is there anything I can do?', and put a hand on their shoulder and squeeze gently or draw circles on their back.) He was good at that sort of thing now. And he could pretend forever for his love, he would pretend his entire life if it meant he could be with him.

But in the end, it just... didn't matter. His love didn't leave him because he slipped. He didn't leave because of anything Crowley had done or said. He left because of _Google_.

Because he'd overheard a conversation between him and Anathema and then decided to let the fucking internet tell him who Crowley really was. And all of Crowley's efforts suddenly meant _nothing_.

They were laying on a hotel bed that day, facing each other, Crowley's hand caressing his face the way he knew his love liked. Josh would never say it out loud, but he enjoyed this part more than anything, more than the sex. And Crowley gave it to him, because Crowley gave him anything he wanted and more. Anathema once called their relationship Crowley's longest and most elaborate con yet, but there was no agenda. Crowley was simply in love. But it didn't matter, none of it.

"This isn't who you really are."

Crowley frowned, his hand stilling for a moment, then moving to push a stand of hair from his love's face. "What do you mean?"

"You're someone else entirely and I have no idea who, do I? You've been pretending since the day we met."

Crowley could suddenly sense something was terribly, terribly wrong. He swallowed down the panic that was threatening to overcome him.

"What are you talking about? Pretending how? Where's- where's this coming from, love?"

As it turns out, other people are broken too. Other people are searching for love just as desperately as Crowley, walking as close to the edge as him.

And when you're a broken young thing, abandoned at birth and raised on the streets because it was better than any place you were sent to, and a handsome, charming, wealthy young man who thinks you're the most precious and special thing he's ever seen gives you anything you ever ask for... well, you might take it a little hard when you eventually learn that man is a psychopath.

"I heard you and Anathema talking. I know what you are, Crowley," Josh said solemnly, still looking into his eyes.

Crowley's face twitched and he pulled his hand away. "And what am I?"

Josh stared at him for a few moments before looking away. "A... a psychopath," he mumbled, suddenly sounding unsure and feeling a little silly upon uttering the word. He still couldn't see it when he looked at him. But... he had read too many warning stories on forums and blogs. No, it was an illusion.

Crowley stared before huffing out a laugh. "That right?"

"Yeah, that's right, I've-" Josh pushed himself up from the bed then, half expecting Crowley to stop him, but the redhead remained completely still, only following him with his eyes that were now sharp and alert. "I've read all about it. It's all I've been doing these past three days. None of your shit is gonna work on me anymore."

"My shit," Crowley repeated, daring to look offended and confused, and Josh wanted to cry. He just wanted Crowley to drop the act already, to admit it and get it over with. He had already more or less come to terms with it in the past few days, gone through shock, denial, anger and all those bloody steps that lead to acceptance. Acceptance that Josh was still a piece of shit, still a used up dirty thing that no one worth anything could ever want. He just wanted to see it with his own eyes.

He wasn't even angry with Crowley, he was angry with himself, damn fool, thinking someone as amazing as that could ever love _him_. Of course, of course the man of his dreams, his white knight in shining armor turned out to be a _fucking psychopath_ , Jack the Ripper or some shit, hunting the streets of London for unwanted whores nobody would miss. He didn't even want to know what Crowley was getting out of it or what his endgame was, not after all the stories he had read.

"Yeah. None of it is real, right? You don't- you never loved me at all. Not capable of it, all you can do is lie and pretend, and- and try to manipulate me to- to-"

"To what?" Crowley asked with raised eyebrows.

"I don't know! To do some twisted psycho shit with me!" Josh yelled, frustrated and angry that Crowley was still trying to confuse him. Crowley's mouth twitched in annoyance and he finally moved to push himself upright. Josh had to remind himself to be afraid, because Crowley was still more or less the same as always, still acting like the man Josh had fallen in love with.

"Right, yeah, _psycho shit_ like giving you everything you've ever wanted? That sort of thing?" Crowley asked and Josh could feel the nastiness behind the words. "Taking you off the street, caring for you, putting you through rehab, making you happy? Treating you any way you want to be treated? Indulging your every bloody whim, Josh?"

 _Ahh okay, there we go,_ Josh thought, smiling coldly, _lay it on me, play on all my insecurities now that you've been backed into a corner. Show your true nature, show me what kind of a monster it takes to love a worthless thing like me._

"Yeah, worked out well for you, didn't it?" Josh spit back accusingly. "Made me into a trustworthy, naive, _stupid_ fucking _asshole_ who actually believed it was _real_. Did you get off on it? Watching me make a fool of myself, thinking someone like- like _that_ could ever love _me_ or want-"

"I _do_ love you!" Crowley cried.

"You say that like it's supposed to make me feel better! That- that the only person to ever tell me they loved me is a fucking _psycho_!"

"Stop _saying that_ ," Crowley hissed, then immediately deflated when Josh suddenly recoiled, forcing himself to calm down and speak softly, the way he usually spoke to his love. "Wh- what's gotten into you, love? Please I... I don't understand... I've been trying so hard, I've been so good to you, haven't been selfish once, not _once_ , Josh, have I? Never took _anything_ for myself-"

"Shut up, shut _up_!" Josh slammed his fists against the mattress. "Do you think I can't see what you're doing? God you're so... Crowley you're so _fucked up_ , Jesus fucking- I can _see_ it now- how- how did I not-"

"Don't say that, don't say that, please, please my love," Crowley's hands darted out and he tried to wrap himself around Josh's arm like a child. "I swear I love you, I swear it. Please, please stop this-"

Crowley was suddenly pushed hard and sent flying back, landing on his back. Josh stumbled off the bed, never turning his back on Crowley as he fished for his phone in his coat pocket, then began reading off the screen out loud, phone shaking in his trembling hands. "' _When a psychopath appears to be friendly or to have an emotional connection one should not be fooled.'"_ He swallowed nervously, eyes darting towards Crowley before continuing. _"'They are the social snakes in the grass that slither and smile their way in to your life and emotions. They feel no empathy, and only care about themselves_.'”

Crowley watched him silently with an unreadable expression and Josh held his gaze. Then Crowley closed his eyes with an exhale, and let his head fall back against the bed.

"Fine."

"Fine what?"

"Fine, you win, I'm a _snake in the grass,_ " Crowley sneered, fearing for a moment he might start crying from the humiliation of it all and the horror of the fact that his love would never look at him the same way, never again, but the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

"And you... don't feel empathy? Don't care about anyone?"

Crowley clenched his jaw and stared at the ceiling.

"So it's true. You- you never loved me."

He rolled his eyes. "Was this not enough drama for you, Josh? Gotta drag it out like always?" Crowley asked with a cruelty he didn't really feel, but words just poured out of him. "Been fucked by a hundred dirty old men and still you're so needy and desperate for attention. Someone finally comes along to pick you out of the gutter and of course _this_ is what you do. _Itching_ to get back on the corner. Was the _psychopath_ too gentle with you?"

The room was silent when Crowley finally forced himself to shut his mouth. He had stared at the ceiling throughout that entire trainwreck, and didn't plan on taking his eyes off it any time soon. He didn't particularly want to know what Josh's face looked like upon witnessing the man of his dreams pretty much _die_ \- or, no, worse than that, _disappear_ before his eyes. Erased from existence and replaced with... whatever Crowley really was.

"If you're gonna leave, just leave."

\- - -

Josh did leave. He went and locked himself into the bathroom and never walked out again.

* * *

They had never locked the hotel room door that day. The cleaning lady entered but stopped just around the corner upon hearing loud grunting noises, then left hurriedly. Lucky, very lucky, you might think. But Crowley would have preferred that fate over what ended up happening.

The second and last person to enter uninvited that night was Anathema. The noises didn't stop her.

The last thing Anathema remembers clearly is the stench, and then everything is sort of a blur. Her young friend was laid on his back on the bed, facing the ceiling, and Crowley was next to him, face buried between his lover's neck and shoulder.

Ad there was... red, so much red everywhere, the bed, the floor, Josh's entire body - but she could make out the white ribs through the mess where Josh's front had been carved open, almost from his neck to below his navel, and Crowley's arm was buried inside, slid into the stomach and under the rib cage, only his bony elbow sticking out from where Josh's bellybutton would have been.

Anathema vomited where she stood without even registering it, before collapsing onto her knees. She still can't remember a single thought that went through her head at that point, not even sure she had any at all, but by the time she came to, Crowley was standing beside the bed, his bloodied arm hanging by his side, deep red almost from shoulder to the tip of his fingers. She tore her eyes away - couldn't look at him without seeing the body in the corner of her eye and she couldn't, couldn't look at it, she could see- could see _inside_ -

Suddenly Crowley was stumbling towards her and she couldn't react before he was reaching at her with both hands but all she could see was the red, could _smell_ it as the air in the room moved-

" _Get away from me_!!" she shrieked, adrenaline giving her the strength she didn't know she had to jump up and back up against a wall. Crowley didn't seem to really register any of it, seemed completely dazed and in some sort of state, but stopped anyway.

At some point, Crowley must have told her that Josh had overdosed, and she would never have believed him had Josh not sent her an incredibly worrying text earlier that day.

Anathema convinced Crowley to go wash himself in the bathroom and with her heart beating like a drum in her ears, she approached Josh. To this day, she wishes she hadn't. She should have stayed there on the floor in that corner, should have just called Crowley's father and waited for whatever arrangements he made to arrive. You weren't supposed to see your friend lying on a blood soaked bed, weren't supposed to see his internal fucking organs, and most of all, you weren't supposed to see a puddle of dried cum next to his hip that your other best friend had left there.

Her hand shot up to cover her mouth and she felt her upper lip curl in disgust. She hated him. God she fucking _hated_ him, had never hated anyone so much in her life, what had she done to deserve this- this- fucking- _thing_ for a friend? What had _Josh_ done to deserve him?! God, Josh - poor, sweet, kind, troubled Josh, he was gone, gone, just a corpse now, dirtied and defiled, Crowley couldn't even- couldn't even leave him be in death- couldn't keep his fucking--

Anathema kept slamming her fists, punching and pushing until she could no longer lift her arms, and then she kicked, kept kicking until Crowley was on the floor, curled up and quiet, and she wanted to beat him into the ground so deep he would never get up again. _What's wrong with you what the fuck is wrong with you how could you do this to him you're disgusting you're disgusting how can you be so fucking disgusting you-_

And then she was too exhausted to even stand as she staggered backwards into a corner, away from the trembling figure on the ground and the motionless red mess on the bed. She slid down with her back against the wall and finally cried.

Only when there didn't seem to be a drop of water left in her body did she get up. Found a clean sheet somehow, somewhere, and went to cover Josh.

"No!" Crowley cried suddenly from where he was still laying on the floor between the bathroom door and the bed. "L-Let me, please."

Anathema wanted to wrap the sheet around Crowley and throw him into a fucking river. She looked at him with so much hatred that his eyes immediately darted away, squeezing shut as he curled in on himself.

Neither of them spoke another word as they waited for the three men that came to make the problem disappear.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment if you liked it! :)


End file.
